Returning with the silver cup of the flask half full of pale pungent
brandy Linda could scarcely keep the tears from spilling over her
cheeks. She had never before felt so sad. Her mother hastily drank,
the stinging odor was transferred to her lips; and there was a
palpable recovery of her customary spirit.

"I don't know what gets over me," she asserted. "I'm certain, from
what I've heard of them, that you wouldn't be a bit better off in
one of those fashionable schools for girls. Woman, young and older,
were never meant to be a lot together in one place. It's unnatural.
They don't like each other, ever, and it's all hypocritical and
nasty. You will get more from life, yes, and me. I'm honest, too
honest for my own good, if the truth was known."

She rose and unconsciously strayed to the mirror over the mantel
where she examined her countenance in absorbed detail.

"My skin is getting soft like putty," she remarked aloud to herself.
"The thing is, I've had my time and don't want to pay for it.
Blondes go quicker than dark women; you ought to last a long while,
Linda." Mrs. Condon had turned, and her tone was again almost
complaining, almost ill-natured. Linda considered this information
with a troubled face. It was quite clear that it made her mother
cross. "I've seen men stop and look at you right now, too, and you
nothing more than a slip fourteen years old. Of course, when I was
fifteen I had a proposal; but I was very forward; and somehow you're
different--so dam' serious."

She couldn't help it, Linda thought, if she was serious; she really